


The Initiate

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Want to impress upon people that you’ve changed, Malfoy? Take responsibility for your actions and your choices. Not liking where you ended up, not wanting what came after doesn’t change the fact that you wanted it at the time. You were a willing participant. Changing your mind can’t erase any of that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Written for the Deflowering Draco fest on LJ, August 2011.
> 
> I was assisted throughout every step of the writing process by my brilliant beta, eucalyptus. I am, as always, indebted to her for her insight and support.

“Wha...”

As the whoosh of the Floo sizzled and faded, Hermione sat frozen with come sliding down her fingers. Staring dumbfounded at the bum-shaped indentation in the worn cushion of the chair before her, it took her a moment to process that he had fled the scene, and even longer to mutter a _Scourgify_ and push herself up from her knees. The recrimination followed swiftly thereafter.

She’d been taken in, hook, line, and sinker.

It didn’t matter how cautious she’d been, how she’d only gradually begun to trust him over the course of months, by necessity as the only eighth-years who could adequately partner each other in Potions and Arithmancy. They’d never been _friends_ , but she could now count him as an acquaintance instead of an adversary. It’d taken her by surprise, but she’d ultimately been lulled by his simple, quiet demeanor. She’d thought it was so poignant in contrast to the way he would fill a room with his bombast and barbs when he had an audience. It had seemed like when they were alone, she’d been seeing the real him.

But clearly Draco Malfoy was a faker. An opportunist with a mask for every occasion.

Hermione’s stomach burned with humiliation as she stumbled from the small sitting room of her suite at Hogwarts to the loo. The circumstances of the evening only excused so much.

Sure, there had been the nostalgia of the Leaving Feast, where it had seemed all of Hogwarts was full of true joy and hopefulness for the first time since the final battle a year before. There had been alcohol involved, which had given Malfoy such a languid, relaxed manner that she’d been enchanted by the lighthearted, heavy-lidded boy chatting her up by the punchbowl.

“All the way over here amongst the vipers,” he’d said, eyeing her group of friends on the other side of the Great Hall with a raised brow. “Gryffindor courage or Gryffindor foolhardiness... matter of opinion, I suppose?”

“Neither. I don’t need any kind of bravery to get some punch.”

“You haven’t tried this batch.” He’d smirked, holding up a fifth of Ogden’s Old, about half the bottle gone. “And, you clearly haven’t spent enough time with Slytherins. If people only knew what went on in our minds...”

He’d overdone the darkness for comic effect, but the glint in his eyes sent a thrill through her. His smile had been slow and inviting, and suddenly it had seemed like anything could happen; to miss this opportunity would be like failing to go for the brass ring. She’d tossed her hair then, hands on her hips, and strained to reach for it.

“Takes more than you lot to scare me, Malfoy.”

That glint had softened to something unnamable. He’d dipped his head close to her, his voice low. “Yes. So I’ve gathered.”

She’d stayed over in the snake pit, glass after glass of punch aiding their conversation. He’d started taking swigs directly from the bottle, and though the liquor was dwindling, you wouldn’t have known it to look at him.

He’d seemed as upright as ever, his usual self, and looking back, that’s what had given her pause. There had just been something distant about him, like he was observing their interaction from afar, but Hermione had ignored any suspicions that something was off.

On the breathless journey back to her room, he hadn’t really reciprocated the fierceness of her kissing, choosing to nuzzle up against her neck instead. She’d had to take the lead, as he hadn’t really done anything to move things along, so all of her two-blokes-worth experience had landed her with her hands in his trousers.

But right after Malfoy got off, he’d been all business. There had been a moment where he’d looked at her with confusion, and she could have sworn he was going to say something, but instead he’d beat a hasty retreat.

“Thanks, Granger,” was all he’d given in farewell, and that had been mumbled over his shoulder on the way to the Floo.

Had he purposely set out to use and humiliate her, or had her aggression turned him off? It wouldn’t have been the first time _that_ had happened. Hermione’s cheeks burned at the notion, and she replayed the evening moment by moment in her gradually sobering mind. Furiously brushing her teeth, she forced herself to meet her own eyes in the mirror. She should have known better. How could she have been so stupid?

By the time she crawled into bed though, the criticisms and castigations had swirled around in her head long enough. She’d had her fill of it.

She would square her shoulders and move on. Tomorrow her adult life would begin; she would ride the Hogwarts Express to a world where she would see Malfoy as merely a speck in the distance... if she ever took the time to look back over her shoulder to where he lived, firmly in her past.

Her fractured heart cheered her on, but her wounded pride stewed in silence.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

“Samson!” she hissed, straining to make out his figure in the dark. At his low whistle, she joined him where he crouched in the alleyway across from the club. “Finkley and Martin are in place. Anti-Disapparation wards are up. We come in from the front and sweep toward the back.”

It was only Hermione’s second time as team leader, but she knew it was important to assert her authority early in the raid in order to keep it. She was going to get the bastard tonight. Frederic Bole had been eluding Magical Law Enforcement for over a year – nearly as long as she’d been with the department – and they’d all run out of patience.

For her, though, it was personal. The arrogant sod wasn’t going to get away with peddling Dark artifacts dangerous to Muggles right under the Ministry’s nose. The last two raids had proven unsuccessful, but this time they had firm intelligence. This time, Hermione thought smugly, _she_ was in charge.

As her wand vibrated in three short bursts, she stiffened. “Alright, he’s connected with the buyer. Let’s move.”

After the hours of waiting and watching, she and Samson crossed the street and came through the doors on a shot of adrenaline that blotted out all but their objective. Indignant bouncers and hostesses stepped swiftly aside at the flash of their MLE badges, and they swept easily through to the inner dance floor.

People were all alike, Hermione thought, be they wizard or Muggle: no one ever wanted to get involved in anyone else’s problems. Those who noted them on their way through the club averted their eyes and went about their business.

Heading toward the private room at the back, she saw Finkley coming toward her out of the corner of her eye. This was most decidedly _not_ where he was supposed to be. Scanning the room quickly, she saw Martin darting down a hallway to the right.

A feeling of dread flooded her just before she felt one long pulse vibrate from her wand. It was the sign for: ‘Perp fleeing the scene,’ and surely meant that there had been a tip-off. Samson swore harshly as Hermione took off toward the hallway.

“You cover the front and sweep upstairs. Don’t let anyone leave,” she shouted over her shoulder, gesturing to Martin as she sped past.

It was an upscale club, but that didn’t prevent the toilets from being crowded by sloshed young adults who couldn’t hold their alcohol. Hermione pushed through the queue of weeping, retching twenty-somethings and made for the door at the back. She knew from the floor plans they’d studied that it emptied onto an alley; it was the only back way out of the building.

She could see Martin at the door, shooting revealing and unlocking spells at it. They must have been hastily erected, because he got through them and out before she reached him. The door was just swinging back closed when she barreled into it at full speed and burst out to the alley.

There was a lone light hanging from the building which left the majority of the space shrouded in darkness. She hastily cast _Lumos_ and swept her arm to the shadows on the right. Automatically turning to the left to do the same, she did a double-take over her shoulder. As her arm swung back right for another look, she froze.

She could just make out, a few meters away, a pale figure in the darkness up against the wall. In the light from her wand, and in contrast to the inky blackness surrounding him, his skin and hair fairly shone. He looked eerie, standing there so still and silent. She found her feet, without her permission, walking a few paces for a closer look as she doused the light.

His eyes were closed, head tipped back against the wall exposing his neck. White-blond hair spilled across his eyes and against the bricks. The dark cloak he wore left the rest of him blending into the darkness, and it was only the movement against it that revealed the other figure in the alley.

Hermione’s breath caught as she stepped sideways to get a better angle. A dark haired young woman knelt at his feet, her hands moving feverishly against him. She could see now that Malfoy’s breath was coming fast, and his hips were moving, thrusting his cock into the girl’s eager hands. He was close, she could tell.

At that, Hermione’s stomach twisted with over a year’s worth of suppressed humiliation. Seeing herself mirrored in the girl servicing him so thoroughly, shame shot through her as he arched against the wall and came in the girl’s hands. It was the only sign that he’d climaxed other than a faint grunt. The girl held herself still then, looking up at him for a sign.

“He and the buyer seem to have gone through an upstairs passage that wasn’t on—“

“One of the ladies in the hall said they saw a bloke go through and cast—“

“Back-up is here doing crowd-control—“

Martin, Finkley, and Samson all burst into the alley at that moment from three separate directions. Hermione spun to face them, her wand arm down, looking for all the world as though she’d just been standing around waiting for them to arrive with updates. Her self-disgust tripled as her reverie broke with the realization of where she was and what she was _supposed_ to be doing.

Whirling back to the show she’d been watching, Hermione saw the girl had gotten to her feet. But then, she wasn’t a _girl_ at all, Hermione noted. She was a woman in her thirties, by the looks of her, and by her mode of dress... well, her line of work was obvious. The woman affected a terribly bored demeanor toward the new arrivals as she vanished the mess on her hands with the practiced skill of a professional.

Malfoy was coming to, his head lolling forward from the wall, reaching to tuck his flaccid member back into his open robes. He looked at the woman who had serviced him, his expression clearing as he saw her attention focused elsewhere. Following her line of sight, he languidly turned toward the rest of them.

Chuckles and comments such as, “Up to the usual _tricks_ eh, Malfoy?” and “Letting the Malfoy jewels out of the family vault again...” rang forth from her team members, and the disgust bubbling in Hermione’s belly transformed into molten rage.

It was rare, but she didn’t think before she acted when her vision turned red.

“Sir, ma’am,” Hermione said, flashing her badge. “You’re potential witnesses standing in the middle of an official MLE crime scene.”

The woman sighed, completely at ease in the situation. “Listen, lady, I was just talking to my friend...” She gestured without conviction at Malfoy.

“You’ve got an awful lot of friends, Olivine... you’re gonna have to be more specific,” said Martin, inspiring a chorus of snorts from his mates. “Come along then, love, you know the drill.” He gestured for her, while she rolled her eyes and fairly stomped to follow him.

“Hang on, Martin, Mr Malfoy will be coming back to the Ministry too,” she said in her Official Voice. It was the tone she’d been working on, and it never wavered.

“Granger,” Samson began, incredulous, “I don’t think we need to bother—“

Hermione whipped around to look at him, the accusation of double-standard written clearly on her face.

Samson cleared his throat and said lowly, “Look, he dabbles a bit here and there. He’s been talked-to about it, and he’s kept it out of the open lately, so I don’t see what’s the big deal.” He shrugged.

“Dabbles...?” Hermione said softly. Looking to the other two agents, their manner was as careless and unconcerned.

She looked to Malfoy then as the full implication tried to take root in her brain. He merely stared back, his expression unchanging and shut-down, but for a twitch that flicked in his left eye. It made her nervous. When she was nervous, she talked incessantly, a nervous habit that had its roots in her childhood when she’d had trouble making friends.

“According to Wizengamot Decree 5392, any witch or wizard found at the scene of or subsequent to the commission of a crime may be held for questioning by any agent of Ministry Law Enforcement. According to section twelve of the parole agreement entered into in June of 1998, Mr Malfoy shall be compelled to answer any questions arising from or regarding the commission of a crime or the suspicion of conspiracy to commit same. Refusal to do so will result in the revocation of his parole and further disciplinary action as appropriate.

“According to the same agreement, any unlawful act found to have been perpetrated by said parolee, be it mere infraction or _misdemeanor_ , carries a higher punitive consequence than normally levied and shall result in the revocation of his parole and detention in Azkaban.

“Now,” she said, turning to face her coworkers, her expression as frosty as the ice sliding down her spine, “someone placed the wards on that door as a decoy to aid escape. I’m betting that they were cast from the outside, and the mystery of _who_ hasn’t been solved. Finkley, confiscate Mr. Malfoy’s wand and escort him to the department. I want him in an interrogation room when I return from reporting to HQ.”

Hermione turned tightly and willed her legs to stop shaking – in anger, or from the unsteadiness she always felt when she didn’t believe wholeheartedly in what she was doing – as she walked briskly past the wards to Disapparate back to the Ministry.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

It wasn’t like being an Auror, working in Magical Law Enforcement. The Aurors were warriors; young or old, male or female, it was about little more than the skill and power behind their wand. They were a close-knit group because they were like war buddies, relying on each other through thick and thin, admiring the skill of the brother or sister fighting beside them.

MLE, on the other hand, was about politics: about research and surveillance and paperwork. It’s not that there wasn’t a bit of that in the Auror squad, but here it was the way of things, the method for getting anything accomplished. Seniority got you everywhere, and MLE was, as the cliché went, an old boys’ club. Hermione had gritted her teeth and pushed through training and her first year, knowing that it was the closest she could get right now to what she wanted to accomplish with her life.

It didn’t help much that she was the youngest woman to come through training in the history of the department. Also to her detriment, her fame and reputation had preceded her, and the notoriety that fell upon the MLE since she had arrived frequently (and as often, mistakenly) cast the spotlight on her. Many things had Hermione pushing hard for every opportunity.

Tonight had been a chance to really establish herself, though failing wasn’t as bad as it might have been. That old boys’ club protected its own, and since a few of its members had already buggered attempts at catching Boles, the head of MLE wasn’t itching to rake _her_ over the coals for it. Especially since she’d convinced him she still had a few avenues left to investigate.

To that end, her heels were clicking down the hallway toward Interrogation Room Three when the door opened abruptly and Samson walked out. He received her most pursed-lipped look of censure as raucous laughter followed him through the gap in the door. Pushing it open wide, she saw a few others from the department visiting with a grinning, relaxed Malfoy.

She’d never figured out how he did it. Somehow he’d maintained a good reputation within the Ministry, even with a conviction (tried as a minor, sentence suspended, but still) for his role during the war. Was she honestly the only one who recalled that he’d been a Death Eater?

But then, her conscience unhelpfully supplied, she’d been able to look past that once too. There was something very ingratiating about Malfoy when he tried, and it seemed like he was always trying. He was ‘on’ when in a crowd, and it was merely a different performance when he was one on one. What she’d thought of as a sweet, shy manner during that last year at Hogwarts had just been another persona he’d used to get what he wanted from whoever was right in front of him at any given moment.

There couldn’t be any other explanation for such different sides to a person, and this bloke – the drinking, partying, slag-chaser – was not the person she’d thought she knew. Hermione did her best to hush the part of her that was childishly taking this personally, but the truth was, she felt more than disappointment in his behavior. She felt betrayed.

As Hermione walked through the door, a hush fell over those inside, though it would have been delusional for her to imagine it was out of respect. It was more like everyone’s mum had arrived with disapproving looks and threats of extra chores, and the lot of them slunked out the door with only a few pats on the back and farewells to their host. The vibration of cheer quickly dissipated without company though, the room unable to support it.

The light flickered in here, randomly but insistently, and after an hour or so it became a sort of Chinese water torture; feeling as though a hole was being slowly tapped through one’s eyelids. A fair few Aurors and Agents couldn’t stand to use this space, but it never bothered Hermione, and she had a tendency to favor this interrogation room because of it. She found it effective, especially if the suspect was left in there long enough. Malfoy silently watched Hermione settle in opposite where he sat, at a heavy, metal table that ran nearly the length of the room. She noted that his eyes were already beginning to squint from the strain.

Purposely keeping him waiting, she made a big show of opening his file and perusing it as though it was all news to her. It wasn’t; everyone in the wizarding world knew of Malfoy’s comings and goings in the past year and a half. It read rather dryly though, as he never missed a check-in, never failed to meet with representatives from the Ministry for questioning or routine evaluations, and was reported by all to be ‘progressing nicely,’ and ‘sincere in his efforts for rehabilitation.’

Hermione had heard him spoken of by people as disparate as a high member of the Wizengamot, a couple of giggling secretaries from Magical Games and Sports, and Madame Rosemerta. All seemed to agree that the actions of the boy did not amount to the measure of the man.

The one blemish on his record, which certainly didn’t count in any way that really mattered other than in the whispers behind his back, was the abrupt ending of his engagement to Astoria Greengrass. It had been announced, feted, and dissolved, all in less than six months. That there was talk of a settlement paid to the Greengrass family at the dissolution was cause for speculation; it was one thing if both had wanted out of the arrangement, but quite another if one party had withdrawn with cause.

But then Hermione didn’t pay any attention to gossip. She’d only barely registered the relationship when seeing it reported in the pages of _Witch Weekly_ (which, really, she only read when having her hair done), and was affected not at all by hearing of its end.

There were rumors of his heavy drinking, but no one had ever reported actually seeing him _drunk_. He was conducting the Malfoy family business admirably, keeping the name alive on the social register, and succeeding in getting people to associate the family far more with his mum and her celebrated heroic act than with his father and the mistakes that had chased the man into an unavoidable stay in Azkaban.

“Fascinating reading, is it, Granger?” Malfoy said lowly, only a slight twinge of impatience in his tone.

She was delighted to hear it.

“That’s Agent Granger, Mr Malfoy.” She dragged her eyes slowly up to meet his, only to see his expression slide more purposefully into boredom. “I was finding it predictable, actually. It’s virtually textbook for ‘How to Get Back into Good Graces by the Skin of One’s Teeth.’ I’m sure the Malfoy family owns the first edition of the manual.”

Something in his eyes went from wry to wary in a second. He suddenly took on the look of one involved in a hunt, as though furiously calculating how to cast himself as the hunter, rather than whatever was to be served up on a platter. Hermione wanted him to know that she wasn’t toying with him. She wanted him on his game.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a glass phial, placing it on the table directly in front of him. Malfoy stared at it blankly before lazily looking back up. He held her gaze. _That_ made her nervous.

“According to Wizengamot Decree 72407, any witch or wizard being questioned by law enforcement may be required, provided there is just cause, to drink a sobering potion to facilitate the interview process. Section eight of your parole agreement, Mr Malfoy, states that you shall be compelled to ingest _any_ potion deemed—“

“I want my advocate.”

“You’ve not been charged with anything, Mr Malfoy.”

He was far too good at this sort of thing to blink in the middle of a contest, but at that, Hermione felt a physical shift of power in the room. The implication was clear: you’ll cooperate and you’ll do it without a safety net, or the consequences will be dire.

He reached forward swiftly and decisively, uncorking and downing the potion in one sure movement. The effect was only seconds in coming, and as his expression sharpened, an indescribable change came over him. He shifted, he slumped, he looked _uncomfortable_ – as though there was so much _less_ of Malfoy all of a sudden.

The hand that still held the phial began fidgeting; a small habit that Hermione recalled from when he was reading something intently, involved in an engaging discussion, or when he was _nervous_. The tip of his pointer finger would worry back and forth along the pad of his thumb rapidly and unceasingly. She pulled herself away from the sight and the memory it conjured.

Clearing her throat, she set her Quick-Quotes Quill to transcribing, giving the date and the time to begin the record. She met his eyes as she began, “You were in attendance tonight at ‘The Lair’ in Diagon Alley, were you not, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“And, when did you arrive?”

“Around nine pm.”

“Did anybody accompany you?”

His eyes narrowed at that, but he answered easily. “No.”

“So, you had arranged to meet Ms Thruston there?”

His mouth opened on a quick inhale that he held as he appeared frozen for a moment on the very edge of answering.

“ _Olivine_. Did you plan to meet Olivine Thruston there?”

He expelled that breath as subtly as possible. “No. I _met_ her tonight. We’d not... been introduced before then.”

“Ah, kismet?” she asked lightly. Malfoy’s manner was now rather self-consciously rigid and expressionless, and he refrained from answering. “Did you meet anyone else at the club this evening?”

“No.”

She raised her eyebrows and paused before prodding, “Let me rephrase the question: was there anyone else at the club tonight you knew?”

“No.”

“You saw no one else of your acquaintance there?” He shook his head. “Was there anyone else at the club to whom you were introduced?”

“No.”

“Then why was it you chose to remain on the premises when clearly you and Ms Thruston were in need of privacy?”

Malfoy again appeared as if he was preparing an answer, but the words didn’t come; his brow furrowed slightly and he shook his head, questioning.

“I’m just curious, Mr Malfoy, why it was that you would have been in that alley, at that particular moment, when a target of Magical Law Enforcement was making a getaway and in need of a decoy in the very place you were meeting with Ms Thruston.” His silence and bewilderment was setting her on edge. She continued, “It would seem a man such as yourself would have the wherewithal to take his personal business elsewhere. It’s curious that you would choose to engage in such activities in that manner, and I question why you, with your record, would choose to do something reckless when other avenues were available to you.

“So, I wonder what motive could have led you to be in that alley at precisely that point in time, because if you’re not involved with Boles’ business, I cannot imagine what would induce you to behave in such a manner, unless you’ve suffered a complete loss of self-respect and possibly an inability to respect _others_.”

She spoke lightly, a hint of skepticism in her tone, but her heart was beating much too fast, and she could no longer meet his eyes. She glanced instead at the transcript, where the quill hovered for a long moment, indecisive, before resuming its scratching across the parchment.

“What is this about?” he asked softly. “Are you— Granger... is _that_ what this—“

She produced another phial from her pocket, placing it on the table. Malfoy’s composure broke, finally; a subtle change, but for one who had studied him, the breakdown of his walls was clear. His eyes widened a fraction, his breath came faster, and the slump of his shoulders spelled defeat. Hermione ignored the look of his unschooled expression, which reflected both fear and what her conscience knew as betrayal.

Veritaserum could not get a witch or wizard to say anything that they didn’t actually know, but it could produce an answer from the recesses of the mind, something of which they were not consciously aware. It was helpful in working with witnesses when they could have some piece of information which had escaped full notice but would be crucial to the investigation if it could be mined from the far reaches of their brain. If it was possible for him to give Hermione an answer, the Veritaserum would produce it; regardless of whether it was something he was capable of articulating otherwise.

Malfoy was very good at Potions and understood their powers and subtleties. He knew that he would be answering every question directly with any and all answers his mind could provide. She could have sworn his eyes implored her for a brief moment, but they were blank by the time he reached forward, scraping the glass phial against the metal of the table and dispatching the potion with the same efficiency as before.

It took nearly thirty seconds for the potion to take effect, and Hermione spent those short moments looking down at his file, cooling the blood in her veins, and organizing her plan of attack. When she looked back up, the bald fact of ‘truth serum’ was written all over his painfully honest expression. Malfoy was drenched in dread, resigned to what was about to happen.

Hermione knew the way to get the subject’s mind to cooperate fully was to start simply, as it was possible for one to answer merely the question asked and nothing else if their mind was strong enough. She would have to be precise here; she knew the intellect she was challenging to be an impressive one. If she could unlock his psyche to the point where his unconscious began to flow and contribute, then it would open a floodgate.

She was well enough acquainted with rationalization to justify using whatever means necessary to get to the information she was seeking. If Malfoy was involved with tonight’s business with Boles, then she would get to the bottom of it. If he wasn’t, and she found he was indeed engaging repeatedly in illegal acts with a prostitute… then she wasn’t about to just look the other way for a parolee, no matter how little anyone else cared about the infraction.

“Mr Malfoy, are you acquainted with Frederic Boles?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have business dealings with Mr Boles?”

“Yes.”

“For how long have you had this business relationship?”

“For about fourteen months,” Malfoy replied, shifting slightly in the metal chair, his squinting eyes trained on the wall above her head.

“What is the nature of this business?”

“He serves on the Board of Directors at Malfoy Enterprises.”

Hermione sighed. She knew _that_. “Have you any business with him that does not pertain to anything regarding or related to Malfoy Enterprises?”

“No.”

She was surprised to find a dead end, but she changed tacks. “Did you see him at ‘The Lair’ this evening?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone you knew at the club this evening?”

“No.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot upward. “No one of your acquaintance was at ‘The Lair’ this evening?”

Malfoy’s body leaned forward ever so slightly, and his eyes moved just a fraction downward toward where they would eventually meet her own. She nearly held her breath, recognizing the sign that the potion had slipped all the way through the barriers of his ego to engage him fully.

“No one of my acquaintance would ever be at ‘The Lair,’” he said emphatically, with a slight tinge of horror at the thought. “I couldn’t do it if there was anyone I knew there. It only works when no one knows.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. It was clearly the worse of the two suspicions that had brought them here. “What only works when no one knows, Malfoy?” she asked tightly.

Malfoy’s expression showed how little he wanted to admit to anything, and how much he was trying to fight going where this was leading. He attempted to take a deep breath, but it was interrupted by the force that pushed his reply from his chest. “The ritual.”

This was going to be positively sordid, Hermione thought, her stomach roiling in disgust. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer, but she couldn’t have stopped herself asking the next question if she tried. “What is the ritual, Malfoy?”

His unconscious in charge now, his tone was nearly conversational; the potion didn’t flatten his affect, but made it so he could calmly convey everything his brain supplied to answer the questions. Sitting easily in his chair, now looking Hermione straight in the eye, his manner was almost eerily casual at first.

“The ritual gets me off. It’s the way I get off. The ritual is the only way I get off. It’s only when they do it right, like her, when I can get her to do what I need that it works, and then no one can know. That’s the only way it works. It was how I was initiated, and it’s how it’s done. Girls don’t understand, only girls I meet and girls I buy where no one knows can get me off, and others don’t understand. Astoria—“

Malfoy’s throat convulsed then, he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, trying to stem the tide. It was no use. His expression was pained as he continued, “It hurts their feelings, but I can’t help it because it’s a curse. Bella worked a spell and I can’t fix it, and I’m sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But I can’t fix it and the ritual is the only way it works.”

Breathing hard, sweat trickled down from his hairline. A look of exhaustion overwhelmed the dread for a moment and he slumped, palms flat on the table, looking as though he’d run a great distance to find himself in hell. The look he gave her was again beseeching, but Hermione’s blood was buzzing, the nerves trying to burst out of her skin, and she couldn’t stop herself. She pressed on as though no longer in control of her own actions.

“What...” she said, her voice hushed, “what did Bella do?”

Though the accusation was clear in the grey eyes that reached for her own, the potion did not disappoint.

“My initiation. The night I got the Mark was the night of my ritual of manhood. She worked both spells, as blood, it’s stronger with blood of blood. It was her hands, and her hands got me off and that’s how she cursed me. She said, ‘you will never be anything but mine,’ and she’s right. It’s the only way. It’s when I find someone who will do it that she’s there, Bella’s there, always there with me and it’s when I imagine that it’s her that I get off and that’s the only way I can. The heir has to continue the line, and I have to be able to, but I can’t, I can’t do it, and I haven’t ever, because Bella always wins. If I could have been stronger I wouldn’t be hers but I’m hers and it’s the only way—“

Hermione had climbed half atop the table to reach him. Pushing the phial with the antidote into his hand, she pulled the stopper off with trembling fingers. Malfoy jerked his arm up, tipping his head back, and poured it into his mouth. Half of it dribbled down his chin to his neck, but it was enough. The effect of this potion was far more immediate than that of its opposite.

His hand slammed down on the table while both legs pushed and propelled him backward as he stood. His chair skidded and hit the wall, falling to the floor on its side with a crash. The phial went spinning, rolling off the far end of the table and clinking as it broke on the tile floor. Malfoy stood panting, staring down at the tabletop where the words ‘The Ministry isn’t real’ had been crudely carved into the metal years before. Hermione eyed him as she would a wild animal and backed slowly off the table to stand, barely blinking, keeping him in her sight.

She’d been within the parameters of her position in law enforcement. The rules governing interview and interrogation were clear, and Hermione had followed them; she’d had just cause for the line of questioning and had followed a logical progression through it to investigate what were definite signs of illegal activity by a parolee. Professionally, she’d been within the bounds of acceptability.

The rationalizations whipping through her head were no match for the feelings warring in her chest, however. Hermione was sickened by what she’d heard. Being honest with herself though, she was disgusted most with her own feelings of pride that had pushed her past her duty to force it from him.

“I’m... Draco, I’m sorry,” she said softly, trying desperately to keep her voice steady.

Malfoy started at that and his head shot up, his gaze toward the wall to her right. “Get all you were after, Agent Granger?” His voice was rough and low, but there was no hint of challenge in it.

Hermione was taken aback. She’d expected rage; she would have welcomed it. “No, I... Yes. I think that’s... I’ve got all I need from you for now, Mr Malfoy. Thank you for your—“

He’d pulled his cloak from the rack and walked the far side around the table and to the door before she could stumble through any more of a reply.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

As usual, Hermione took comfort in research.

Survivors of sexual abuse frequently face issues and problems. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Compulsive or risky sexual activity. Substance abuse. Control issues. Dissociation. As a coping mechanism, victims learn to ‘check-out’ of situations, and create other personalities to mask what goes on inside: “When I was on, I was _on_. When I wasn’t, I disappeared into the surroundings.”

Different factors influence the effects of the abuse: the age when it occurred, the frequency, the relationship to the child... whether the abuse deliberately involved shaming the child. Whether the child had loving, supportive family members or felt that someone cared about him.

Many survivors regain a sense of power by gaining control over the abuse's aftereffects. Don’t minimize what they tell you. Don’t maximize. Don’t push or probe, be patient, be supportive, but not controlling or enabling. Know when to point them toward professional help. Educate yourself as much as possible. Get the survivor into the habit of being in control of what they do and what happens to them.

These things seemed to fit with what Hermione knew of and had experienced with Malfoy. As it had been over four years since, it wasn’t surprising that his behavior was becoming more extreme. She hadn’t been easily sold; there were times when it seemed impossible that the person who held himself with such confidence and who had accomplished so much could be suffering from any such affliction as what she’d read.

But then, they were all children of the war, and there was more than just what Bellatrix had done to him that would haunt Malfoy. Hermione could identify with a lot of things – at least in theory – having survived a harrowing couple of years herself. They both had scars, literally and figuratively, and Bellatrix’s hand had been in both.

Hermione was good at constructing and wearing her masks too. From the outside, a generation of them were remarkably healthy and happy, marrying and multiplying, rebuilding the wizarding world for their bright and shiny futures. The difference for some of them was in the outlets provided, and in how much people could empathize with what they’d suffered. There were as many ways of dealing with it, though, as there were survivors. Harry and Ginny had clung to each other in the aftermath and through the storms that raged still, while Hermione and Ron had each pushed the other away immediately following the triumphant end. No one had all of the answers.

But she could feel the call of her conscience now, and knew that she would not be able to keep herself from trying to help. She recognized her own issues at play; she wasn’t stupid. Hearing her mum’s voice in her head, shrill and accusing, Hermione knew it was another situation where she would be making an unsolicited, unilateral decision. Trying to help in the past, she’d caused a lot of pain, but there had never been a moment since that she regretted anything she’d done to protect her family or friends.

When there was something she could do, it was in her nature to step in. It wasn’t that there wasn’t another solution, but it was the same as during the war. She felt responsible.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

Malfoy appeared unsurprised when she walked in the room and took the seat next to Samson. The latter finished his questioning and left within minutes, leaving the two of them alone. She’d called him in for further questioning in the Boles case and scheduled this meeting in Interrogation Room Two, knowing that the atmosphere was far less intimidating. The table was wood, the chairs were cushioned, and the lighting was bright and warm. They frequently referred to it as ‘the Interview Room,’ such was its difference from the others.

Malfoy was far from comfortable though, sitting rigidly upright, arms crossed on his chest. His face revealed no emotion and had been schooled into one of polite engagement. His gaze was _just_ to the left of her eyes.

Hermione took a moment to look over the transcript of his interview with Samson before beginning. “You saw no one who fit the description of the suspect’s buyer, Fenwicke Pilkington on the night in question?”

He took a moment before answering, as though there was some sort of trick question hiding therein. “No.”

“Did you see anyone in the alleyway at all prior to MLE making their presence known?”

“No.”

“Thank you.” Toward the Quick-Quotes Quill she said, “Statement from Draco Malfoy, witness for Case number 50219G, concluded.” She waved her wand to terminate it. Seeing him start to get up out of the corner of her eye, she blurted, “Malfoy, wait. I wanted to tell you about the department’s transcribing procedure.”

He froze, his eyes snapping to hers, surprised at her reason for stopping him. His face was more unguarded than she’d seen it since Hogwarts, and she taken aback at the sight of it. As the moment dragged on for more than a few seconds, she watched one blond eyebrow slowly rise.

Hermione envied that; she’d never been able to raise just one eyebrow.

“Yes?” he said, confusion in his tone.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat, shaking herself out of it. “I wanted to let you know that when an interview with a subject moves into areas not directly pertinent to the case for which it’s being conducted, the extraneous material may be redacted from the transcript with official approval.”

Malfoy’s face flushed, and he suddenly found that the wood grain of the table called for close study. “I see. And how does one get approval to—“

“It’s already been done. You can request to read the transcript in order to see what’s been excised from the record, and should you not agree with the portions cut, you can appeal for review and request any additional material be struck.”

He nodded. “And... when you say ‘an official’ reviewed it?”

“Worthington Nelson.” Head of Magical Law Enforcement. He was fair, pleasant, and well respected.

Malfoy glanced up for a moment and nodded curtly. Pushing back his chair, he stood and reached for his cloak, flinching when she spoke again.

“I wanted to say...” She watched his back as he busied himself getting ready to leave. “Draco.”

At that his shoulders slumped in surrender. Heaving a great sigh, he turned to face her.

“Draco,” she said gently, “I wanted to talk to you about your counseling sessions. I read your file—“

“Of course you did,” he snapped, tossing his cloak over the back of a chair.

“I didn’t see anything about... what happened to you. You haven’t mentioned anything about Bellatrix, and I thought that it—“

“It isn’t any of the Ministry’s business. It’s none of _your_ business, but don’t let that stop you, Agent Granger.” His posture was again rigid, arms crossing his chest like a shield.

Hermione did her best to soften her approach. “I just think that a necessary part of your progress is going to require that you address—“

“It’s been addressed, again and again. I don’t see why I should have to get into specifics,” he said tightly. The rest he recited as if by rote. “I have taken responsibility for my actions and my choices. I was a willing participant, and just because I didn’t like where it landed me or what happened after doesn’t change the fact that I wanted it at the time.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold at his words. They were _her_ words.

Two years before, they had been a pair of shell-shocked kids trying to make their way in a post-war world. There had been growing pains for months, with aggression to be spent and apologies made. Hermione wasn’t a pushover, and she hadn’t been about to just accept that he’d had a miraculous epiphany that had changed all of his views. The long process of working their way toward understanding and forgiveness had all exploded one afternoon over the brewing of Everlasting Elixir in Advanced Potions.

“You seem to have forgotten, Granger, that I didn’t kill any Muu— _Muggle-borns_ or Muggles,” he’d hissed, keeping his voice as low as possible while Slughorn made rounds on the other side of the room. “I didn’t fight with the Dark Lord.“

“You didn’t fight against him,” she’d whispered equally harshly, her eyes flashing in anger.

Eyes wide, he’d abandoned his mortar and pestle and the pretense of grinding the crocodile tooth to lean in close. “You know that my family was in jeopardy—“

She’d rolled her eyes at that. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about the poor Malfoys, just carried away by Voldemort and his evil plans without any say in the matter. You act as though you made no choices—“

“We didn’t _have_ choices!”

“You fell from grace, and you didn’t like where you landed!” Her voice had risen, the attention of half the class was on them, and Slughorn was getting nearer. She’d lowered her voice and continued, “Realizing that Voldemort was a dangerous psychopath only when he’d turned his ire on _you_ isn’t terribly clever or noble. You were more than happy to be a Death Eater when the power and the thrill of it all seemed within your reach. You sought it out, you yearned for it, and you _let_ him _have_ you. It was only after it turned sour that you changed your mind about what it was he was trying to accomplish.”

He’d shaken his head weakly, whispering, “I _didn’t_ want— I didn’t know...”

She’d reached for his left arm, lying on the table between them, but he’d recoiled quickly before she could grasp it, stepping back from the table, arms crossed as though she would come after him. It was futile trying to hide it though; she knew it was there.

Pointing at his arm instead, she’d said, “When you asked for that, you set things in motion. You wanted to belong, you wanted all that came with it. Want to impress upon people that you’ve changed, Malfoy? Take responsibility for your actions and your choices. Not liking where you ended up, not wanting what came after doesn’t change the fact that you wanted it _at the time_. You were a willing participant. Changing your mind can’t erase any of that.”

Malfoy had, surprisingly, taken in her words, nodded mechanically, and gone back to grinding the tooth to dust. Hermione’s blood had sung in her veins for an hour afterward, and she’d been giddy with the triumph of having given the smug bully of her childhood the what-for he deserved.

It had not been intentional, certainly, and it wasn’t her fault, but clearly he viewed _everything_ that happened the night he was made a Death Eater as part of one big mistake for which he was culpable. He wasn’t alone in holding himself fully responsible.

But what Hermione had grown to understand in the time since was that it was the long process of learning about other people, cultures, and other points of view, coupled with an arduous eye-opening through death and hardship rivaling her own that had forged a change in Malfoy.

Even though a teenager had saved the world, it didn’t mean just any kid could be expected to bear the weight of it. There was a reason Dumbledore had believed Malfoy should be given a shot at redemption; he’d recognized a work-in-progress and the potential to grow and change.

“Draco.” She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. “You weren’t... you didn’t ask for _that_. For any of it, really. You were too young to understand. It wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t choose it.” Suddenly recalling something from her research, she changed her tack. “It doesn’t matter if you _enjoyed_ it.”

He wouldn’t meet her gaze, and he was holding very still, but she knew she had his attention.

“You couldn’t have chosen anything; you couldn’t be responsible for anything that happened with Bella, because she had all the power. You had none, and she abused her position and the authority she had over you.”

At that, his eyes snapped to hers and the anger there was palpable. “Oh, is that a fact? Would you know something about abuse of power and position, then, Agent Granger?”

Hermione flinched. It was a fair accusation. She’d learned not to put herself squarely on the side of victim by ignoring her capacity to wound, or the ability inherent in everyone to hurt others. No longer that sometimes self-righteous girl, she recognized that circumstances didn’t always bring out the best in people. She was disgusted by her place on the continuum that, to her shame, included Bellatrix Lestrange.

But she’d forgiven _him_ once before and for worse, she reminded herself. She knew such miracles were possible.

“Draco,” she began, and he looked at her seriously, as though he’d just _heard_ his name from her lips, reaching him through some thick fog. “I just wanted to offer to help you. I think I can help you with your... problem.”

“My _problem_?” he said lowly, brow furrowed.

She held his gaze steadily. “Bella didn’t cast a spell, Draco. There’s no curse on you, there was no magic. This problem, your behavior is normal for someone who— You’re experiencing understandable aftereffects of immense stress and _abuse_.”

His cheeks had pinked again, and he stood there shaking his head, processing what she’d just said. “How would you— You’d _help_ with it?”

Hermione was still a young woman and very susceptible to mortification herself, so she became incredibly interested in her quill as she explained, “Obviously, you should talk to your counselor about this, and that’s definitely a big part of it, but I was thinking that I could— Well, that we would try to get you to a place where you could be comfortable with _it_ , and we could try things that would accomplish that.”

“I don’t need your pity, Granger.”

“It isn’t pity, Draco. You should know – you should remember – that I, well... I would be happy to. I would be interested in...” She shook her head and summoned her courage, looking him in the eye, saying, “I would be interested.”

His face flushed scarlet. “I’m not a bloody _cause_. Stick to Hippogriffs and house-elves,” he said tiredly, grabbing his cloak with finality and rounding the table toward the door. It brought him nearer to her, the door to her back.

The quip reminded her suddenly of a heated debate they’d had their final week at Hogwarts, and she was transported to another time. It wasn’t an easier time, that’s for sure, nothing was easy for them in those first months when they were staggering and stumbling on new legs in a new world. But looking back on it, Hermione remembered what it had felt like to have forgiven Malfoy. How fresh and sweet the air had smelled once it had cleared between them, and she longed for it now. She rocketed back in time to that night when anything had seemed possible, and she reached again.

“The offer will stand, Draco. Alright?”

She stood, now directly in front of him, as he reached for the door. He stopped and looked at her like she was a particularly long and involved Potion; but Hermione reminded herself that Potions was his favorite subject. He nodded once and turned to leave. Accepting that this might be the end of it all between the two of them, forever, she seized her last chance.

“So, Malfoy,” she said over her shoulder as she gathered up her things from the table, “I was wondering. Why me that night?” Every muscle and sinew in her body was put into service of keeping her voice light. “I was removed enough from your social circle, I guess, that no one would know?” Enough of a slag, her pride appended silently, but she was too strong to let that read through her eyes. He’d never hear her say it.

He was quiet for long enough that she glanced back at him. Malfoy’s look was regretful, and he opened and closed his mouth twice, trying to answer. Hermione felt the sting of rejection again and prepared to shrug it off.

“You...” he began softly. “At the Manor, Bella tried and tried, but she couldn’t break you. I thought—“ He shook his head, his expression sincere. “I never saw anyone stronger than a curse from Bella.”

At the close of the door, Hermione’s pride swelled, and her mended heart beat on.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

Clenching her jaw against the pulsing of the music, she cursed herself for formulating a plan that involved bass lines that made her head vibrate. She’d yet to figure out how any of the people who frequented these clubs were able to connect with each other _at all_ , much less with any sort of meaning. But then, she was probably ascribing far more depth to these interactions than anyone was looking for; she should have known better, given the reason why she was here.

It was her seventh such foray into the nightlife of the wizarding world, and Hermione had begun to doubt that she was going to have any success in getting Malfoy to bite. The first two tries had landed her at clubs he clearly didn’t frequent, but she’d seen him these last several times, and more importantly, he’d seen her. She’d kept her distance, merely drinking and watching, tossing her ‘bugger-off vibes’ (as Ron had termed them) at anyone who approached, but giving hopeful, inviting glances in the direction of one elusive blond.

It hadn’t worked. The first time, he’d left almost immediately after sighting her, and she’d felt bad that she might be interfering with something that gave him some sort of comfort. He’d seemed to accept her presence after that, but each time she saw him leaving with someone else, she believed less and less in this approach.

She largely ignored the voice in her head that questioned why she was doing this at all, much less putting forth such effort. It was more than just her voice, though; Harry spoke too, rather loudly. He’d run into her at one of the clubs early on, and when he’d asked what she was doing there, her nervous glance toward Malfoy was an amateurish giveaway that Hermione should have been able to suppress. He’d given her a pointed look, but he and Ginny had left immediately.

Being Harry, he’d followed up with her. And, being the Harry Potter who had fought a war, and in so doing had seen every one of his preconceived notions disintegrate to dust, he’d listened. She didn’t tell him all that had happened to Malfoy, but she told him enough. She’d imagined it was something Harry would understand more easily having been raised with Muggles; they didn’t really speak of such things or the psyche in the wizarding world.

She also told him of the Malfoy she’d come to know in her eighth year, and she’d admitted for the first time, not only aloud but truly to herself, that she’d come to care for him. The incident after the Leaving Feast had hurt her, but time and understanding had helped to heal. There was something deep she felt she could exorcise in helping him now, though; more than the feelings of guilt and responsibility and her usual desire to be of use, Hermione believed she _could_ defeat Bellatrix in this way. If she and Malfoy could transcend the work of that madwoman, it could mean an end to the war once and for all, for both of them.

He’d listened to all of it, and being Harry, he’d taken a deep breath and told her to be careful with her heart. But he’d amended that with: “But not too careful, Hermione, yeah? If you see some way you could be happy...” He’d shrugged. Ginny heard it all from him, and though having support from the two of them wasn’t the same as having _approval_ , it was comforting nonetheless.

Hermione was watching the stirrer as she swirled it around the half-melted ice of the lone firewhisky and soda she allowed herself on these occasions when she realized she’d lost sight of Malfoy. Looking around the area where she’d last seen him, she didn’t notice someone sliding onto the stool next to her.

“This has got to be the least festive attire I’ve ever seen. Do you even change from your work clothes before going out on a Friday night, Granger?”

She’d jumped when she heard his voice. As MLE, she rarely left herself vulnerable from the back, and being actually surprised from behind was an absolute scandal. Hermione was scowling as she turned around.

“I find dressing in any more obvious fashion gets me more attention than I would like.” She fiddled with the collar of her perfectly respectable work robes. They were black. Black was supposed to be elegant and good anywhere, right? The look he was giving her was appraising, and she fidgeted more under his frank regard, but it made her bold. Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “I’m not interested in attracting just anybody, Malfoy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Clearly. You seem interested in attracting clerics recruiting for a new convent.”

Hermione knew this Malfoy – she remembered him well. This bloke made her heart beat a little faster and made her stretch and work underused muscles to match his wits. The light in his eyes when they were in the middle of a tussle made the synapses in her brain pop like popcorn. She was quicker and funnier with him; he made her _better_.

She shrugged carelessly and tossed her hair. “Well, you know I’ve always fancied a man in black.”

He smiled, fixing her with a pensive stare that made her nervous. So much so, her anxiety was about to launch her into an entire speech about Johnny Cash when he spoke.

“You know, most species adapt to their surroundings. While it’s almost admirable to be so resolute in the face of fashion—“

“Well, I wasn’t going to go so far as to call the native females here another _species_ , but you would know better than I,” she said wryly.

Malfoy’s mood turned serious as though she’d flipped a switch. She was disappointed that playtime was over, and as he nodded, brow furrowed, fingers fidgeting, she held her breath.

“Yeah, you don’t really belong here, Granger,” he muttered lowly. He looked around the club as though checking to see that no one was watching, then turning back, he leaned in. “So. Hypothetically speaking, where would you propose we...” He tried to gesture, but there was really nothing appropriate.

She knew what he was getting at and didn’t leave him hanging. “Wherever you’re comfortable. My flat, or at your—“

“Not at the manor,” he said emphatically.

“That’s fine. My flat, or somewhere neutral if you prefer.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t finished. “No one would be able to know. Not because—“ He looked apologetic, and Hermione nodded, shrugging as though she cared nothing for his reasons. “It’s just... not how it’s done.”

“That’s fine, Draco.” She’d just make herself fine with it. She could live with that.

At that moment, the bartender brought him another drink, and Hermione realized that he must run quite a tab and be rather well known around town, because he only nodded at the man before downing the drink and turning back to her.

“Alright. But you can’t touch me,” he blurted. Realizing its absurdity, his face twisted with embarrassment, and had it not been so dark, surely the color of his cheeks would have shown it. He looked around like he was surrounded on all sides and got up as though to leave.

Hermione touched his arm lightly, stilling his movement. “What if I ask nicely?”

Letting out a long breath, looking exhausted, he shook his head. He turned away from her and out to the dance floor, and she was mesmerized for a moment by the colored lights flashing on his face; he looked at turns ominous and childlike. While Hermione was trying to hold a shield around her heart, it was threatening to beat right out of her grasp. She wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing, but she was ready to jump. She was good with Malfoy; better, in a way, than she was with anyone else. They made good partners, and they were good at working together at difficult problems. She tightened her hand to squeeze his arm.

“It takes a lot to scare me, Malfoy.”

Something like a smile curved his mouth and softened his eyes as he looked into her own. “So I’ve gathered.”


	2. Chapter 2

She hadn’t been kissed like this since she was sixteen.

After days of negotiations by owl, they’d come upon an agreement that had brought them to Hermione’s flat in the early evening of a Thursday in late September. Draco hadn’t laid any specific ground rules – their back and forth had been self-consciously formal and purposefully vague about what it was they were actually deciding upon – but she was doing everything she could to make him feel totally in control. To that end, she was letting him lead entirely, and that had brought them here, snogging like teenagers.

After a conversation over wine that only loosened up as the bottle emptied, he’d awkwardly moved to go, and when she went to walk him out, he’d gotten her up against the door. She was held in the cage of his arms, his palms pressed to the wall either side of her shoulders. Her own hands were hanging at her side, pushing flat against the wall periodically, her fingernails clawing at the wood as she resisted reaching out for him.

His kisses had been rather artless at first, but sweetly questioning. Sliding his lips over hers and gently pulling and pushing for what felt like forever, she’d squealed when his tongue finally reached for hers. He’d pulled back and looked at her, and she hadn’t been able to read what was in his eyes. Itching to pull him back, to kiss _him_ , she’d instead tipped her head up in supplication, invitation, closing her eyes.

Their mouths the only place their bodies met, it made the kiss burn all the more. As he deepened it, pushing forward, Hermione instinctively arched, seeking him out, and their pelvises made contact. She moaned loudly, and he tore his mouth from hers. As he panted against her cheek, she tried to discern if he was embarrassed by the slight hardening she’d felt against her, or just overwhelmed. Either way, he needed to hear it.

“You feel so good, Draco,” she whispered, holding herself still.

Hermione imagined she could feel his heartbeat vibrating in the air between their bodies. He made a soft noise at the back of his throat and licked her jaw. She tilted her head to guide his way, and her breath caught as his lips lightly nipped down her neck. As he made his way back up, a whine pushed out from her chest as she exhaled. Turning her head, her mouth opened to his as he plunged them back into a searing kiss.

Draco’s fingernails scraped and scratched at the wood near her head. Feeling pleasantly devoured, she moaned from deep in her belly when their centers brushed again. She only hoped he couldn’t hear the frustration in it.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

“But it isn’t as though you couldn’t have done it. You had the N.E.W.T.s for it.”

“Well, yes,” she said casually, though she was always secretly pleased when someone mentioned her bona fides. “But you’ve got the same attitude as the rest of them. You think that to be an Auror is the be-all and the end-all, and it’s—“

“I think nothing of the sort. I have absolutely no aspirations or admiration in that—“

“You, along with everyone else, think that law enforcement is inferior to the Auror squad. It’s as though they’re regarded as the elite, and we’re seen as those who just couldn’t make the cut.”

“It’s not popular regard, Granger; they’re actually _defined_ as such. An ‘elite squad’ I believe is said of them.”

Hermione waved her hand as though that was all such smoke and bother. “There’s nothing to it but thrill seeking, and that sort of thing is always flashy and highly thought of, so it gets a lot of attention. Well, that and the high-profile suspects they’re after, I suppose.”

“Yes,” he said wryly. “Mustn’t forget the Dark wizards. They’re a large part of the attention, you’ll have to agree.”

“I do agree,” she said tightly. This was a tired argument, but one she could never seem to avoid. “But there’s nothing to build a life from in that. There’s nothing created from that sort of work; you can only destroy. And the ends are worthy, naturally, but what can you hold onto after all the adventure is over? In the end, once what you’re after is gone... where’s the sense of accomplishment?”

He ruminated for longer than she expected, and she nearly turned over on the bed to look back at him. When he spoke, however, his voice was thoughtful. “So that’s what happened between you and Weasley?”

“What?” She’d meant for her voice to come out as indignant or confused, but it was too breathy.

“It’s just... he continued his escapades with Potter, and you went back to Hogwarts. Adventure versus accomplishment. There’s not much to build a life from in that.”

Hermione was disoriented by the heartbeat pounding in her ears until she realized that she had to respond. She couldn’t let him think that she was going to allow this line of questioning. Some things should be off limits.

“Wh— Malfoy, what I’m talking about is working my way into law _making_. I want to really understand how those laws work, how they affect people, and the practical considerations of things, before...” She cleared her throat. “It’s a natural progression. MLE to the Wizengamot, I mean. Building. From there.”

There was something about lying here in only the dim light from the small lamp on her night table. Though they were fully clothed and on top of the covers, there was an intimacy to it. Turning her back to him (with a foot of space between) eventually led them to speak to each other in ways they never had before. There was such safety in shuttering your face from view, but there was comfort in the closeness of another human being. Hermione hadn’t considered the possibility that it could go both ways.

“Do you miss them?”

Her laugh was startled and genuine. “Harry and Ron? I see them all the time.”

She thought of Draco’s own group of friends from Hogwarts then, and how they’d been decimated in as many ways by the years since. You lost people sometimes, and you outgrew others. While there were those who would always be there, always be family, they couldn’t always be _close_ to you. The easy, almost psychic link you have with some doesn’t always survive different goals and aspirations.

Hermione sighed and added quietly, “Sometimes.”

Her heart was beating its way back to normal when she felt the lightest of touches in her hair. Tiny pulls and tingles shot up to her scalp, making her whole head feel like it was floating above the pillow. The bed rocked slightly as he moved closer, brushing his fingers more confidently through her curls. Colors burst and swirled inside her eyelids, and she felt her body sinking fully into the mattress.

“Mmmnnnh. That feels nice, Draco.”

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

It was getting easier each time they met. Progressing from the polite greeting to the friendly interaction to the touching, touching, and more touching was becoming almost routine. They weren’t really _dates_ , of course, but they followed a similar pattern, and Draco’s pursuit of her was earnest as a suitor and eager as a pupil. Since Hermione had been making sure he was in charge of what they did and how, it had been slow going. But his kisses goodnight, though always sweet, had become more fervent of late. He was making his moves with increased confidence, becoming so comfortable with where they were that she’d decided it was time to push him further.

She waited for the knocking and clanging of the radiator to finish and the hiss of the steam heat to bathe them in white noise before reaching for him. She’d asked nicely and he’d agreed, but Draco was lying stiffly against the pillows and looking at her warily as she knelt beside him. For a moment, she took him in against the backdrop of her great-grandmother’s quilt; it should have been incongruous to see him surrounded by the humble trappings of her Muggle life, but he was a compliment to it.

Running both hands flat down the crisp cotton of his shirt, she reached the buttons. Her thumbs were deft, slowly pushing one, two... then underneath the fold, three, four... each slowly from its confines. Delicately taking the edges of the fabric in her fingertips, she folded them back to reveal the bare skin beneath. Gently, she pushed the fabric fully back and out of the way. His blond hair golden in the lamplight, her fascination drove her to lean forward. She pressed one finger to a vein and followed it up. His fist clenched empty air, and a hiss to rival the boiler whistled through his teeth.

She’d never seen one up close.

It was the source of his shame, so its mottled appearance struck her as appropriate. Where it had once proudly twisted black against his pristine, white skin, now it bloomed like a bruise in the process of healing; pale purple and blue, green and yellow on the edges. The head of the skull lay in the crook of his elbow, while the tail of the snake was coiled and ready to strike at the delicate skin covering the artery. It was far more detailed than she’d thought it would be, and the markings and designs were ornate and nearly beautiful.

It had taken her weeks to be allowed to see it. There were missteps along the way; grabs at his forearm and squeezes at his wrist that were met with flinches and recoils. Kissing him as fully as his spirited snogging called for was difficult without being able to hold him in some way. He was getting easier and easier with her though, and now she could wrap her arms around his waist and run her hands flat up the muscles of his back. All of it was over the shirt, however, and as committed as she was to this process, she had to admit to becoming impatient.

Hermione wanted to touch him. She wanted to be touched. But she wanted Draco to feel safe and comfortable, and had realized that to move him past where he’d stalled in his sexual exploration years ago would mean defusing the symbol of it. Though she wasn’t about to kiss it and make it better, she did think she could accept it and strip it of its power to humiliate.

Wrapping both hands around his wrist, she ran her thumbs lightly up his forearm, squeezing and rubbing the muscle and sinew. Draco’s hand went slack as his arm bent, sliding through her grip as he reached up to lightly touch her jaw. She looked up to see that his breathing was shallow, but his expression was without tension. His eyes were intent on hers as he pushed his fingers into her hair and fully cupped her face. His lids were heavy, but as he ran his thumb back and forth on her cheekbone, his look was peaceful. She took a deep breath and reached for the buttons of her blouse.

Draco’s eyes widened slightly and his breathing changed dramatically to deep and heavy. Not being quite bold enough to hold eye-contact, she watched the rise and fall of his chest as she opened her top. As she pulled it from her shoulders to reveal herself in a bra of dusty rose, his hand slid slowly down the side of her neck.

Looking up to his face, she saw his eyes no longer on hers but focused decidedly lower, and his gaze was appreciative. It was Hermione’s best lingerie, worn purposely for the occasion, and though her face went hot with embarrassment, always shy at first, she couldn’t deny that it was just the sort of attention she was after. She tried to relax as his hand traveled the planes and curves down her chest to her stomach.

There she stopped his hand, and his arm went rigid in her grasp. She looked up to reassure him, and saw his brow furrowed. Turning his hand to press against her right ribcage just below her lace-clad breast, she placed it over a rough patch of skin; a burn scar she’d earned in the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco flinched slightly, surprised at the sensation, then looked down to see as well as feel.

Hermione was always hesitant to show this to anyone; she wasn’t as vain as the next girl, but she was in fact still a _girl_. Dark lighting was usually employed to hide this and a smattering of other scars about her body from the war. Draco looked interested but not horrified as he tested the texture under the pads of his fingers. It was not the best place for that kind of exploration, and she twitched as it tickled like hell. She grabbed his wrist to stop him, and for the first time, he didn’t cringe at the contact.

Holding his arm in both hands, palm rubbing at the Marked skin, she slid and maneuvered herself to lie next to him on the bed. She pulled his arm so that it lay against her, bare skin to bare skin, cradled between her breasts. He turned his hand to touch her face lightly as he leaned in.

It was barely a whisper, but she clearly felt the words “Beautiful, Hermione” murmured against her lips.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

“Really, Granger, it’s not that uncommon. I hear Potter’s parents did.”

“Yes, that’s true, but—“

“You think that’s _romantic_ , whereas looking at my engagement, you assume archaic tradition or desperation. Very nice.” Draco’s tone was far more wry than offended.

Hermione huffed indignantly. Turning to face him fully, she abandoned her preparations for tea. He was quite comfortably sprawled in one of the chairs at her kitchen table, leaned back with his hands behind his head, looking pleasantly sated and welcoming to debate. She leaned against the counter and obliged.

“I said absolutely nothing of the sort. All I meant was that it was a rash decision for a young couple,” she said, raising her voice when it appeared he would interrupt, “especially for such a _new_ couple. Six months is just not a very long time to get to know one another.”

“I disagree. Six months should really be all it takes.” He waved away her shocked expression. “Anything you don’t know about each other by then would be best learned over the course of a lifetime and with the safety of a commitment. People are too casual about relationships, and that’s what keeps them closed-off. It’s why it takes years to get to know a person.”

Hermione was dizzy from the logic in that statement. “People grow and change, Draco, and they can’t have a clue that what they’d want when they were twenty would be the same as when they’re fifty.”

His look was incredulous. “Oh? And people don’t grow and change in their thirties and forties and beyond?” He raised his brow as though he was quite sure he’d won. “While I see your point, I think it’s faulty. There are no hard and fast rules, and the success of any marriage is a combination of luck and hard work. The _when_ isn’t as important as you might think.”

Deciding to just leave this argument in favor of something she’d been wanting to know for a while, she asked casually, “Well then, what about the ‘who’ being important? What made you think you were a good match with Astoria?”

He thought for a moment, and she wondered if she’d upset him until he spoke, sounding merely thoughtful. “It wasn’t some grand romance, but... Our temperaments suited. _Yes_ , our parents promoted it. That doesn’t mean it was a bad idea.” He shrugged, but looked her steadily in the eye. “You could always do a lot worse than finding someone you care about and respect. And just because marriage is what’s expected of me as the only heir, that doesn’t make it a bad thing in and of itself.”

He shifted and reached past the remnants of dinner for his wine glass, tipping it into his mouth to get the very last drops of wine. He’d already done that though, and there was nothing left. “And yes, the Malfoy Charter recognizes formal courtship and legitimacy in marriage only to a pure-blood. That’s just understood and something I’ve known since my father explained it all when I was thirteen. I’d never felt particularly _trapped_ by it though.”

He paused, and the look in his eyes was one she couldn’t place, but her pride wanted to see regret there. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees and eyes piercing under his furrowed brow, it seemed very important to him that she get the point he was laboring to make.

“What I mean to say is that I didn’t feel restrained in the choice that brought me to Astoria. The Charter has never been breached, and its legacy is important. Maybe that in itself is archaic, but there’s accomplishment in tradition.” He sat back and averted his gaze as he continued, “It’s a living document though, and its purpose is to serve the family. It’s there to give each generation what it needs.”

That stung a bit. Hermione had her quixotic side, and she’d be lying if she said she’d never thought of the things beyond the world outside her flat that would keep her and Draco apart. As pragmatic an arrangement as this was, she had a heart, and it would engage itself from time to time in dreaming of ‘what ifs.’ There was no reason to get carried away with it, but she was human.

He’d begun to insist on certain niceties when they met, that a meal or a drink be had between them, and he always paid or brought the takeaway himself. Though she knew that was his way, upright and traditional to the core, she couldn’t help but feel a bit courted. At times, she wished he wouldn’t bother; she thought it might be easier if he just treated her as casually as their relationship seemed to dictate. But what was their relationship? They were friends at least, but was that all?

“So what happened between you and Astoria then?” She sat down opposite him and tried not to seem too eager for the answer.

Hermione watched as he went through the routine with the wine glass for the third time. He’d brought only one bottle on the past few occasions, but she hadn’t asked him if he was trying to cut down. Watching him make circles on the kitchen table with the bottom of the glass, she wondered if maybe her chance for answers had been missed back when he was still drowning his inhibitions.

“She uh...” It came out raspy, and he cleared his throat. “She heard a rumor.” Looking up, a sneer twisted his face. “Well, a _friend_ told her a story, anyway. She got nervous, and she pushed this elaborate scenario to try and seduce me to try and prove—“ He shook his head, a shuddering breath coming out of him as he drew a very detailed pattern around the chips in the formica surface with his finger. “It didn’t work. I couldn’t... Well, you can imagine. It didn’t work.”

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she whispered. And as little as she mourned the end of his engagement, she was sorry.

He cleared his throat again. “She was really hurt, and I just couldn’t explain.” Raising his head, the lightness of his tone was forced as he said, “It’s good it happened when it did, though. I would have— I wouldn’t have wanted to make her unhappy.”

“You wouldn’t have, Draco.” She said this so fervently that he seemed surprised. Shaking her head vigorously, she continued, “You would have figured it out. Over the course of a lifetime, you two would have grown and... you would have figured it out together.”

His smile was grateful, and her heart lurched and stumbled for the rest of the evening, fairly leaping from her chest to search for his own when he backed her up against that table and kissed her, hard.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

This was the best theory she’d ever concocted.

Draco’s problems with arousal and his need for specific circumstances in order to find release were mainly because he couldn’t separate it from the humiliation he’d suffered at Bellatrix’s hands. It had thus been difficult for him to find anything other than specific behavior erotic, and when things escalated, he would slip into memory to the point where he almost experienced his aunt as present when he climaxed. Trying to break that cycle, he was avoiding those exact circumstances, but achieving and sustaining arousal had been an issue.

Hermione postulated that since he seemed to get turned on by her reactions, if he just focused on her and her pleasure, he would be able to not only refuse any breakthrough of Bellatrix’s memory, but would associate arousal with a completely different experience.

Boy, was she ever right about that. Self-satisfaction was a heady drug for Draco, and nothing kept him more emotionally engaged than his pride. His confidence was building and soaring over the course of the past two weeks, and her mood certainly hadn’t been hurt any by the process.

As he plunged a second finger into her, Hermione arched and keened imploringly from her throat. Draco’s mouth came down on hers through the darkness and the swirling colors against her eyelids. Yes, she was so very, very _smart_.

His fingers twisted, thumb questing, and as it brushed her clit she squealed and bit down on his lower lip. His chuckle was delighted, but it became dark and wicked as she came hard on his fingers with a high-pitched shriek. Stretching and twisting against the sheets, she felt wonderfully and blessedly naked, and more comfortable than she could remember ever being in her skin. Panting, coming down slowly, she wanted to sing. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so pleased with herself.

She was pretty pleased with Draco too, for that matter. She liked him really, really a lot.

What a thing to teach a man, after all, to focus only on the woman’s pleasure. His future wife was going to owe her great thanks, but she tried not to think about whoever that was going to be. She was now reaping the dividends of Draco’s prodigious skill, as he had natural talent. _Naturally_ , she thought, and the laugh that had threatened officially broke from her as he kissed the most sensitive skin on her neck.

“Sohhh... SsssMMMAAARRRRrrtummm...” she said, shaking her head against the sensation, almost too much for her. The feeling stopped immediately.

“What?” His voice was husky and low and all kinds of sexy.

“Mmmm?”

“What about him?” he rasped, voice tight, but she didn’t notice.

“Him?” She couldn’t understand why he was no longer paying attention to her neck. It was getting cold.

“Martin.” Draco was holding himself very still, propped on one elbow, looking down at her with a great furrow cutting his forehead in two. She didn’t like the look of it and reached up to run a finger down it. His eyes slid shut before he pulled her hand from his face. Opening narrowed eyes to her, he said sternly, “You could tell me.”

Hermione was suddenly very distracted by the paleness of his skin and the way it shone in the moonlight coming through her bedroom window. Though not burly, his musculature was well-defined, and in this light he looked like a marble statue. She reached out the fingertips of the hand he wasn’t holding to touch the scar that ran diagonally down his chest. It had been a great, gaping wound in the center, and the spell used to seal it had to have been rushed and simple to have left such a mark. She knew it had been.

He allowed the touch, and she reveled in how the strip of skin shined in the light. Very suddenly though, he grabbed her wrist and moved quickly over her, holding each hand in one of his, pressing them to the mattress over her head. She held her breath as he moved over her, one knee pushed between her legs.

Draco’s eyes bore into hers. “Are you seeing someone?”

Hermione shook her head to clear it. “What? Draco...” Her leg came up to wrap about his own and was disappointed to encounter the fabric of his trousers.

He released a sigh, diving to catch her lips in a quick kiss. As he pulled away, she stretched to follow, but he was holding her down and was soon out of reach. His next dive launched another assault on her neck, and as she moaned and stretched under him, she could hear a mumbled, “...could tell me.”

His attack took him on a tour of all of his favorite places as he pushed himself down, down to rest on his elbows between her bent knees. As he scooped her thighs up in his arms and pressed his face forward, she felt her own pride blossom and bloom.

The hardness she’d felt pressed against her through the wool of his trousers was unmistakable.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

Well, now she really felt like a teenager.

‘Dry-humping,’ she recalled as the term for it from when she was sixteen. It would be ridiculous if it didn’t feel so bloody good. She would feel silly if it weren’t for the months it had taken to get here, where she could feel him against her and could touch him with abandon. It would be strange if it weren’t Christmas, and if he hadn’t shown up at her flat this evening without warning and in a festive mood, bearing a bottle of brandy and a box of chocolates the size of Quaffle.

Lately, his interest in divesting her of her clothing was paramount, and he’d done so with great efficiency almost as soon as he’d walked through the door. It had been a little awkward getting it all off, holding the bottle and the box as she was, but she was not at all interested in curbing Draco’s dominant impulses, now that they were (finally) making themselves known. That he’d seemed feverishly hot for her was something else she wanted to encourage.

She didn’t know exactly what had gotten into him tonight. She hadn’t spoken to him since the week before at St. Mungo’s Christmas party, and he’d been strangely terse with her then. But here she’d felt embraced, cherished, worshipped. Able to demonstrate all she felt right back to him, it had been as though he was simply her lover, and nothing more complicated than that defined them. It had made her bold, and she’d quickly rid him of his shirt, reaching for his belt and cheering herself on when she met no resistance.

They’d stumbled and tumbled their way to lying on her bed, and she’d been kissing and licking and caressing from her position astride him when he’d given a great moan. Grabbing her hands and flipping her on her back, he’d settled himself on his elbows above her. Capturing her lips with his, he’d wound one arm beneath her neck to cradle her head in his palm. The other pushed under her hips, angling her and pulling her center against his.

And now, though Draco wore his silk pants, and her cotton pajama bottoms were still in place, the sensation was marvelous. His tongue stroked hers and her fingers wrapped in his hair. The hot, hard length of him was insistent against her, and she wrapped her legs up and around him. Grinding herself closer, closer, she tightened her legs and clenched her fists.

With a growl, he took hold of the wrist of the hand wound in his hair and yanked to hold it against the bed. His other arm came from around her waist to grab her thigh. Effectively pinned, she could only receive as his hips sped up. He bent slowly to lick the very tip of one nipple then the other as she shrieked. His breath was hot and heavy against her as he hovered for a moment before fully descending, taking the whole of one into his mouth as he sucked.

Mumbling what sounded like her name over and over, desperately, against her skin, Draco’s groans grew more and more pleading. Hermione was arching and striving for something she couldn’t quite reach when his whole body shuddered against her. He gasped and then a moan that seemed to start at his toes pushed out of him. His back bowed as his whole body went stiff.

Hermione could feel the wetness through the silk of his pants as his arms gave way. Feeling a satisfaction that overrode any frustration, she went to wrap her arms around him, but he resisted. He pushed himself up on his elbows, heavy lids sliding shut as he caught his breath.

When he opened his eyes, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on the pink mark he’d left on her breast. Hermione reached up, dragging her finger down to smooth his forehead and he flinched, startled from wherever he’d gone in his mind. She pulled back her hand and waited, but he only briefly flicked his gaze to hers before pushing up and off her entirely. His face was pinched, and his expression was full of regret.

Rolling over to sit at the edge of the bed with his back to her, his voice was rough as he said, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione hadn’t known it before that moment, but it turned out ‘sorry’ was the worst thing a girl could hear from a bloke when lying naked and sweaty with his come on her stomach. Was that, ‘Sorry I jumped the gun,’ or ‘Sorry I made a mess?’ That would be fine, but it was more likely: ‘Sorry, that was a mistake.’ _That_ made her stomach churn with humiliation, the likes of which she’d not felt since that last night at Hogwarts as she’d listened helplessly to the whoosh of the Floo at his hasty exit.

Her hopeful heart wanted to clarify though, so she asked, quietly, “Sorry for what, Draco?”

He rubbed his face roughly with both hands before standing abruptly. He busied himself with gathering his clothes, saying weakly, “I shouldn’t have done that. I lost control.”

Hermione wrapped herself in her great-grandmother’s quilt and got up to go to him. She wasn’t about to take this lying down, literally or figuratively. “That’s fine, Draco,” she said softly, “you should be allowed to lose control, at least once in awh—“

“No. It wouldn’t be _right_.” He was just zipping up his trousers and he raised his head to look at her, his eyes bright, his jaw set.

Her heart clenched, but her fiercest armor came down immediately to shield it. If he was going to end this experiment of theirs because of propriety or prejudice, she wouldn’t fight him. She had pride, and it had been injured, but not mortally, and she would never let him see the wounds. Her heart was another matter, but secondary in moments like this.

“Draco,” she said, her tone deliberate, “this agreement of ours should be something that’s for you. If you want to stop, it’s up to you. It’s your choice.” She held her arms firmly crossed in front of her chest, clutching the quilt covering her, and she was very proud that her voice didn’t shake.

He took that in with a deep breath. Searching her face for some answer, he seemed to come up with the wrong one. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I’m sorry.” And with that, left the room.

Hermione had followed him out in a daze, missing him just as the green flame of the Floo sputtered. She had her first good cry in a long while, staring at the blinking lights of her Christmas tree until she fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa. When she awoke, the small, modest tree looked cheerless in the morning light.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

“He’s staring again,” he said lowly, looking over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. “I mean, I wasn’t sure when he was over by the punchbowl, and now he seems to be trying to hide it, talking to that skinny bloke from Magical Transportation and everything, but from the way he keeps tipping his head, I can tell that he’s definitely—“

“Thank you, Harry.” Hermione said tersely, distracted then by a great guffaw from Ron, who was talking to her date about racing brooms. When she turned back to Harry, his arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking back and forth between Ginny and herself with his most pursed-lipped glare.

“What?” she said, glancing at Ginny to see her rolling her eyes.

“Would _one of_ you mind telling me why?” Harry said, annoyed, but keeping his voice low.

“Why what, Harry?” Ginny said innocently. She had heard all about it, but was under the impression Hermione didn’t want to talk about it right now. She was right.

“Why Malfoy looks like he could kill, either Hermione or anyone who comes near her?”

Hermione stiffened her spine and took a careless sip of her champagne. Her voice matched her manner as she replied, “How should I know? Nothing Malfoy does is my concern.” She really didn’t know, after all. If he didn’t want to continue with her, if he didn’t think it was ‘right,’ then why should he care a bit about what she did and where? He shouldn’t.

She looked around to the other revelers attending the Ministry’s New Year’s Gala. Rather, she looked about to the others _attending_ ; she wasn’t feeling quite as festive as the rest of them. She sighed and looked back to find Harry leveling her with a softened gaze, and her breath caught at the understanding there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His expression was so concerned that she had to look away.

The noise in the room spiked suddenly – the music, the raucous laughter, and the clinking of eating, drinking, and making merry – and it suddenly felt as though her nerves were trying to escape through her skin. Harry and Ginny standing before her were too caring, Malfoy behind her was too confusing, and Ron and Westley, her date, were too clueless. She was dizzy and breathless and had to get out of there.

Hermione turned to her friends to tell them that she was going to go, but Ginny reached for her glass, and Harry offered to fetch her cloak before she could say a word. Her eyes burned then, and though she was grateful for their sympathy, she absolutely refused to lose control in public. Hermione turned to her date to let him know she would see herself home, but Ginny waved her off.

“If they even notice you’re gone, we’ll explain you weren’t feeling well, okay? Happy New Year, Hermione.” Her look was bracing and got Hermione out of the ballroom and through the Floo.

She’d only stumbled around for a minute or two, slipping off her heels and dismantling the elaborate style that had tamed her hair, when there was a knock at the door. As little as she expected to see Draco that or any other evening, she knew immediately it couldn’t be anyone else. She hadn’t heard from him since what Ginny had termed the ‘Humping Incident’ of the week before (unhelpfully amending, “Well, it wasn’t exactly ‘dry’ now, was it?”). Clearly, he must have been watching her to see when she’d left. Harry would be so pleased to hear he was right.

He gave only a cursory greeting as he walked in, looking around as though he’d never been in her flat before. Hermione was a bit embarrassed at the state of it; she’d not cleaned for over a week, and there were remnants of the holidays strewn about everywhere. Gravitating toward her mantle, he’d fidgeted with the pictures there while she stood impatiently watching, debating whether to leave him and either get out of the bloody tight dress she was wearing, or make a sweep of the room to clean up all the rubbish.

“You’re seeing Martin?” he said toward the photo of her, Ginny, and Luna at a café in wizarding Paris.

When she didn’t respond, he turned to look at her. She merely shrugged in response and tried not to feel cheered by the disappointment she saw flicker in his eyes. It was fleeting, and he turned his attention immediately back to very important task of straightening picture frames.

Hermione was tired, and she was tired of being sensitive to Draco’s feelings. She had feelings too, and was sick of forgiving his stomping on them because he didn’t know better or because he had problems. Well, _she_ had problems. She wasn’t a doctor or a counselor, and she’d been stupid to think she could remain objective in all of this. A woman with a heart just couldn’t _do_ this sort of thing for this long without needing to push back a little.

So, if he believed she was seeing someone else, that was just fine. Westley Martin was her go-to for formal occasions because the majority of those in the department were married or seeing someone, and it just made everything easy for them. There was absolutely no intrigue to it, but Draco may have seen them together before and easily gotten that impression. In fact, he’d seen them together just recently at the Christmas party; if any of his unfathomable mood swings had an explanation, that could be part of it.

“And you’re seeing... Pucey?” she asked. Or Flint, or Bagshot or something like that. The blonde, beautiful, well-bred woman she’d seen on his arm this evening was surely of the finest wizarding stock in Britain.

“Arianna Flint. Her father is on the board.”

Hermione looked heavenward as if for strength, blowing the hair up off her forehead before leveling her eyes back on his. “Right. Is that yes?”

Turning fully to face her, his mood was agitated but his expression was guileless. “Oh... no. No, it was a favor. She’s just out of Beauxbatons and doesn’t know many people in Britain.” His expression was serious and direct as he said, “I left her with Blaise just now. I wanted to talk to you.”

Oh. Oh dear, they were going to be honest with each other? He was standing there like an open book, practically luminous in his dress robes, and it was just a little too much to take. She was prepared for this to go the way of prideful ego-preservation, providing a relatively clean exit for both of them. But he wanted to _talk_ about it?

She crossed her arms and stiffened her spine. “You didn’t have to follow me home, Draco. You always know how to reach me.”

His face twisted at that, properly scolded for how he’d disregarded her. Again. “Yes, I’m... “ He looked everywhere but her eyes for a moment before he regained his purpose. “I wanted to let you know that I’d stand aside. For Martin.”

 _Stand aside_? What was this, the eighteenth century? She would have scoffed and retorted, but he wasn’t finished.

“You shouldn’t feel trapped by a good deed or—“ He shook his head, taking two steps toward her, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “It’s _your_ choice. You’re not beholden to this _agreement_ , Hermione, if it isn’t what you need.” He took a deep breath that seemed to summon his strength. “I need to do what’s right. You shouldn’t be unhappy if you can get what you want from someone else.”

Hermione was barely breathing or blinking by the end of that, ready to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his gallantry in such a situation; wanting to scream at his blind possessiveness and her own foolish pride. It was at moments like this that she knew her legendary bravery was far overrated, because she couldn’t find the nerve to say something like, ‘But I want you,’ or ‘I’m not dating Martin you daft git!’ She wasn’t that kind of a gutsy broad.

Instead, she summoned what pluck she possessed, wrapped it up in hope, and said, in barely more than a whisper, “What do you want, Draco?”

It was remarkable, the change that came over him at her words. Because there were different kinds of courage, and in some ways, Draco was as brave as the most daring Gryffindor. He might not know how to defend himself in battle or to find his own convictions when the world fell down around him, and he couldn’t stare evil in the eye without blinking. But when it came to getting what he wanted, he was fearless in his purpose.

Draco’s eyes never left hers as he crossed the puny distance of the lounge to reach her. His plans were formulated and routes mapped by the time they stood toe to toe. Reaching for her face with both hands, he took only a moment to make clear his intention before closing his mouth on hers. It was earnest and open, his kiss, and Hermione’s heart soared. When his tongue slid against her own, she gave herself over to it, only to feel her stomach drop as he pulled away.

His hands fell to his sides and he stood, waiting. It took only a few seconds for Hermione to understand; she had to do this. He was declaring himself, and he was ready, but it was up to her to consent to it. With a nervous smile, she reached out to take his hand in hers. He was still, and she looked down at their clasped hands for just a moment before she took a breath and tugged. That small pull propelled him toward her, toward the bedroom at the end of the hall, toward the great unknown.

They were immediately fused head to toe, somehow moving as one, backward and forward and turning and twisting their way. His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand pushed into her hair. She dug her hands under his robe and shirt, greedy for his bare skin. He crouched and contorted to make up for the distance in height. Having made this journey several times before, they easily found themselves with shins bumping against the mattress.

Clothing was shed efficiently but not without reverence. As usual, Draco lit the lamp near the bed, bathing them in soft light, leaving nothing hidden from view. Hermione had gotten used to it; she felt warm under his appreciation, and she found that being able to see him was worth it. He stretched out on the bed, and she followed, crawling over him. He was beautiful, scars, Mark, uncertainty and all. Reaching to the elastic at his waist, she pulled the last barrier from between them.

Draco looked at her intently but with trust in his eyes, trembling as she ran her hand lightly over him. Rubbing up his thigh to his belly and the coarse hair there, she gently dragged her hand down to wrap about his length. He was hard and she squeezed with triumph. Moaning, his eyes raked over her face, studying each feature and cataloguing all the traits that made her—

“Hermione,” he rasped and held out his hand.

Crawling up, she was embraced, flipped, and overpowered in one deft move. On his knees, Draco leaned forward hard on one hand, running the other lightly down her body. By the look of concentration in his eyes, he was memorizing every curve and freckle. He was too far away from her though, and she pushed up on her hands, angling to kiss him. He kissed back for a moment, then gently pressed for her to lie back down.

His feather-light touch drove her insane. Dragging a hand down her thigh to her toes, he kissed his way back up the inside. He squeezed her breast, then licked and sucked until she writhed against him. He peppered her neck with nips and busses that he refused to bestow on her seeking lips. When his hand finally pressed confidently against her center, she moaned so loudly that he groaned with her.

Hermione was stunned looking at him, this artful lover of hers. His breath was heavy, his eyes fixed on hers as he parted her and slid one finger inside. Hermione lost track of everything but how it felt, reaching out to him, wanting him closer. With Draco’s one, two fingers in concert with his circling thumb, she began to climb.

But the sensation and the emotion of it all suddenly became too much and too _little_.

“Draco...” She opened her eyes to see him above her, and his eyes were so warm her stomach fluttered. He kissed her then, his fingers picking up speed. It was not what she wanted. Tearing her mouth from his, she panted, “Please, please, please, please, please... You. I need _you_ ” Her hips arched off the bed as entreaty.

He froze and swallowed thickly, but his expression was not one of fear. Delicately withdrawing his fingers, he sat back, taking hold of his length in one hand. Nestling it up against her opening, he stilled and looked up at her. She didn’t know what to do, but she couldn’t have torn her eyes from him if she tried. As he jerked forward involuntarily, the tip slipped inside and his eyes slammed shut.

Draco’s head dropped to hang heavily between them as a hiss was pulled through his clenched teeth. The bed shook as both his hands came down hard by her shoulders. After a few quick pants, his head jerked up as though he’d suddenly remembered something, and his glazed eyes found hers.

Hermione reached up to push the hair from his eyes, and her hand came to rest on his jaw. Turning his head, he kissed the center of her palm. He glanced back at her with a look of wonder and, with a deep breath, pushed forward to slide inside her. Draco’s entire body shuddered, and the moan that rumbled forth was nearly mournful.

Reaching with both hands, she tugged to get him closer, but he resisted all but shifting to his elbows. His eyes were fused to her face with a near obsessive concentration while he did nothing but hold himself still and breathe. She understood; as she’d taught him, he wanted to keep her in his sight, to stay present, to keep the experience in the now. Yet she wanted him, his warmth and all of him, near her, crushing her.

But as he pulled out and thrust slowly back in, his face slack with nearly unbearable pleasure, he groaned, “You feel so good, Hermione.”

And the truth of it was plain for her to see in his eyes. It was the most honest and intimate moment of her life, and it was about her, about him, and about what they were to each other. It wasn’t about sensation, but _feelings_ , and the lengths they’d traveled to reach this far were written in the air between them. She’d never experienced anything so powerful. She knew she’d never feel anything like it with anyone else.

So she returned the fierceness of his look, laid bare with nowhere to hide. But his eyes were not shuttered from her view either, and his soul was beautiful to her.

Draco’s thrusts now became a rhythm, and Hermione ran her hands up his chest to hold his jaw as they moved. His look never wavered, and it was easy to see what he was feeling. She knew he wouldn’t last long, but his focus was so entirely on her that he’d already gone longer than she’d expected.

His brow furrowed and his moans became desperate. She grabbed his hand to drag it down to where they were joined, guiding his fingers. His eyes widened with realization, and when he looked to see, he became mesmerized by the sight of him sliding in and out of her.

Eager eyes shot back up to see her, to gauge her reaction, and her heart imploded. Sensation twisted and merged with feeling, and she moaned with each panting breath as she came. Somehow she held her gaze steady though, and she saw him immediately follow her over.

Ecstasy looked like pride and peace on Draco, and it matched the warmth in her chest.

He collapsed then, his breath heavy on her neck. Wrapping her arms around him fully, _finally_ , Hermione squeezed. As he squeezed back and kissed her neck, she felt an untamed happiness conquer her. She felt like the two of them had made sense of chaos and had defeated the only problems that mattered. For now.

For the first time, she fell asleep with Draco wrapped around her.

As usual, when she woke, she found herself alone.

 

  
**~ ~**   


 

Whatever she’d been expecting in Interrogation Room Three, Draco Malfoy was most definitely not it. Samson had told her that a witness in the Boles case had come forward to make a statement, and of all the people present at ‘The Lair’ on the night in question, the one who’d shagged and left her a few days before without a word was the last she thought she’d see. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him. It certainly wasn’t that she didn’t want an explanation; she did, but this was not the time or place for it.

“Mr Malfoy. What brings you in today?” she said briskly, tossing the file on the table as she sat. She busied herself with setting up the Quick-Quotes Quill and didn’t look up.

He cleared his throat as though waiting for more acknowledgement, but he could just go on waiting. She wasn’t helping him with this awkward situation.

“Well, _Agent_ Granger, I was wondering if you were aware of Frederic Boles’ girlfriend?

She sighed. “Girlfriend?”

“Yes. The one who was at the club the night of your raid.”

Hermione’s head snapped up so quickly that her wide eyes were greeted by a gentle smirk.

“Thought you’d like that,” he said softly. “I made Lucinda Timms’ acquaintance a couple of months ago; she’s a friend of Pansy’s. Seems she’s quite annoyed with her boyfriend because he keeps leaving her places with very little explanation. She’s got no love for Law Enforcement, but when he doesn’t tell her _why_ he needs the distraction—“

“She was in the hallway? The locking spells?”

He nodded. “That wasn’t the only time, either. She’s often underestimated, and that’s going to mean trouble for someone someday.”

Hermione bent fully over her notes and scribbled furiously on the parchment. “Well yes, especially if she’s not interested in taking a fall as accessory just to save her boyfriend.”

“Well, don’t _you_ underestimate her either, Agent Granger. From what I hear, she’s rather attached to him.” He was quiet for a bit, while the sound of quill on paper was all to be heard. “It’s interesting how I came to put the pieces of this together, actually,” he continued, his tone light. “You see, Lucinda’s mother is very good friends with my mum. They have tea every Thursday, and I frequently join them. Needless to say, the conversation is rather boring, but Madame Timms was going on and on the other day about how her darling Lucinda had received a Letter of Intention from one Frederic Boles. Lucy had referred to her boyfriend as ‘Freddie,’ and I never connected the two.”

He paused for a moment and Hermione looked up. Her interest was piqued; he wasn’t usually one to ramble on about nothing, even when the situation was awkward. “A ‘Letter of Intention?’” she prompted.

Draco’s smile was rather alarmingly like the spider to the fly. “ _Yes_. You’re probably unfamiliar with the tradition. It’s rather old-fashioned and largely practiced by pure-bloods. When a man is intending to court a woman formally, he must address the woman’s mother and obtain her permission. That way, nothing can be misconstrued as more than it is, and a man can’t string a woman along forever without declaring himself. Ms Timms was over the moon at that letter from Boles, and Lucy was just as thrilled.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted painfully at the reminder of the codes and prejudices that kept her wishes and hopes as only fantasy. The things that were important to Draco, that made him who he was, made it impossible to be with her. She couldn’t expect him to change any more than she could change something so defining in herself. She wasn’t willing to be a second-class citizen in his life, and he wouldn’t be willing to overthrow the structure of his whole family.

When he spoke again, his voice was now very purposefully casual. “There’s a rather balanced distribution of power amongst traditional families, and the lines are clear and impregnable, for the most part. In nearly all of them, while the father has the authority over most practical concerns, as well as over the interpretation and modification of the charter itself, the mother has full say as to the approval of the suitor.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised, still trying to grasp the thread of this discussion. “You mean it can’t be challenged by her husband?”

“Essentially, no. It works that way as well for the matches to the sons of traditional families, within the bounds of each family’s code. There are charters and enchantments to protect everyone’s interests and authority, but there are provisions for if the power structure is disturbed.” Draco was looking at her intently, and she was listening carefully for every nuance. “For instance, section five of the Malfoy Legacy Charter states that should the patriarch of the family be deceased or indisposed, in the absence of another suitable head of the family, the _matriarch_ will be given all powers previously vested in the former.”

He sat back, and Hermione sensed he wanted her to query, “So, would that be the case if the head of the family was incarcerated?”

He smiled and nodded once. “Yes. It so happens that my mother has all the powers over the family charter and its stipulations that had previously resided with my father.”

Hermione held her breath as she waited for what Draco had come to tell her. His fingers started fidgeting, and he cleared his throat a few times while her hope surged.

“I spoke with my mother about Bella,” he began softly, having more difficulty now making eye-contact, “and how that affected me. I told her about you—“ He looked up at her soft gasp and rushed to continue, “And she _agreed_ , given your experience with her, that you were uniquely suited to... counteract Bella’s _spell_.”

Hermione’s knee-jerk reaction was one of exasperation. “Draco, that’s ridiculous! I thought you’d come to understand that there was no enchantment or curse. Your counselor even said that given the—“

“Granger!” he snapped, and she recalled suddenly what he’d been saying. She sat dumbstruck as he carried on. “She agreed, given the state of things and the practical considerations of protecting the line, that changing the charter to allow formal interaction with those of different _status_ would be prudent.”

He leaned toward her, and his eyes were so warm and sincere that she unconsciously tilted forward as well. It suddenly didn’t seem like the wrong place for this talk at all; their relationship had always been one of negotiation and adjustment, of question and answer, of analysis and healing. Setting and ambiance had never really made much of a difference to them.

“Listen, Hermione. Adherence to certain rites and processes is integral to upholding the Malfoy Charter. The Charter is very important to my mother. My mother and her approval is very important – is essential – to me.” He paused, his eyebrows raised for acknowledgment, and Hermione nodded, breathless. “But it’s also important to me to do what’s _right_ , and there’s a way of going about things that I’ve neglected... I’ve always thought it was very sensible for people to declare themselves and their intentions, to family and friends as well as each other, and I’ve _tried_ always to make mine clear when I could. When it hasn’t been possible...” he trailed off, imploring her to understand and, possibly, to forgive.

She was still a little unclear as to what was happening here, but she was beginning to recognize the feeling of expanded horizons and limitless possibilities when they presented themselves. What he was offering was heady and big, and there was a bit of fear mixed with the exhilaration she felt. This man before her had always inspired her to jump head-first though, and in the balance of things, she hadn’t had much to regret. The comparison of risk to reward was daunting, but it was the kind of challenge that made the lioness within her stretch and prepare to leap.

His face flushed astonishingly red, and his fingers twitched and fiddled wildly. He cleared his throat and said, “So.” He cleared his throat again. “I was wondering if I might have your mother’s address.”

He looked at her seriously, but with that glint that looked so good in his eyes, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. It was joyous and celebratory, from deep down inside her, and it was way overdue. There were many things to be done and said between them, and they were behind schedule, but it was never too late.

But first, she turned to the Quick-Quotes Quill.

“Statement from Draco Malfoy, witness to Case number 50219G, concluded.” And with a wave of her wand, she ended the spell.

  
**~ the end ~**   



End file.
